I harbored. I felt shy as I removed my
clothes and stacked them in a locker;
being naked with Sam in this context
felt different from being naked with
him in my apartment.
We sat on a ledge in the first pool,
a cold drizzle falling on our shoulders.
After a few minutes, nudity no longer
seemed like a big deal. Without swim-
suits, the human body was a neutral
thing, detached from eroticism, though
I still wrapped my towel around my-
self as we moved from one pool to
another. We explored the resort’s at-
tractions: the large, lukewarm pool,
several hotter pools, a small cold pool
walled in colorful tile, a sauna and a
steam room separated by a cedar deck.
When we’d completed a full circuit
and were back in the first pool, I
glanced at the clock above the locker-
room entrance and saw that only an
hour had passed. My chest tightened,
and I wondered if perhaps we had
come for too long.A
s we sat in the lukewarm pool, I al-
lowed my gaze to alight momen-
tarily on other people. Across from us
was an older man with long, stringy gray
hair pulled into a ponytail, his eyes closed,
his thin lips serenely compressed. A cou-
ple emerged from the sauna. They seemed
oddly matched—the woman was average-
looking, in her late thirties, with a soft
body and a pinched, unremarkable face,
while the man was tall and muscular, with
the striking good looks of a young actor.
I nudged Sam. “Do you think he’s
a blot?” I whispered, nodding toward
the couple.
“A what?”
I didn’t know how anyone could
have missed hearing about blots, asthere had been extensive news coverage
of the latest advancements in pirated
blot technology. I explained the phe-
nomenon, and Sam nodded, his face
set in mild bemusement. I felt agitated
by his disinterest. I wanted to provoke
more of a reaction.
“When we first started dating, I was
worried you might be one,” I said.
“Oh yeah?” Sam said.
“I was on the lookout for clues,” I said.
Sam shrugged. “Well, sorry to dis-
appoint you,” he said, giving my left
thigh a playful squeeze under the water.
The conversation lapsed again. I was
annoyed that Sam wouldn’t join me in
speculation about the mismatched cou-
ple, who had retreated into the locker
room. On the drive up, we’d had music
as a buffer, allowing us to pass long
stretches without speaking. As we set-
tled in for a last pre-dinner soak in the
hottest pool, I waited to see what he
would talk about in the absence of ex-
ternal cues. He began complaining that
the resort forbade cooking meat on the
property; he was worried about get-
ting enough protein to maintain the
muscle mass he’d painstakingly built
at the gym. I asked him what he ate
during the week, when we were apart,
and he said mostly skinless chicken
with mixed greens, and vanilla-flavored
Muscle Milk.
“Wow,” I said. “You’re a protein fiend.”
Sam gave me a cross look. “I wouldn’t
say that,” he said.
“No?”
“You make it sound stupid.”
“That wasn’t how I meant it,” I said,
though I realized it was. I was nervous,
eager to lighten the mood. I began tell-
ing a story about an ex, a younger guy
who played bass in a Tool cover band
called Stool. I’d met him at a meeting.
Before he got sober, he’d spent a year
eating only sardines in mustard sauce,
which he bought tins of at Safeway on
his liquor runs. In his first six months
sober, he’d eaten only ice cream, a gal-
lon a day.
“When we dated, though, he was
back to a pretty regular diet,” I said.
“Well, regular enough. He still ate a lot
of ice cream.”
Sam’s mouth was a pink dash set
within a tumult of beard growth. “Gross,”
he said.
“Sure,” I said. “He thought so, too.”“That’s a great question! In fact, it’s a wonderful, probing, sensitive
question that’s making me reassess all my life’s work.”